Paris France - Planes, trains and Aussies in Paris

In early November 2001, I was sent by my employer at the time, to Paris , France for a week to participate in some training.

As anyone could expect, after September 11, the world was on high alert, and then there was the misguided French.

France 's approach to national security was at the time, a little misguided and somewhat confusing as you will read.

My plane arrived into Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris , on a chilly winter morning. As the plane was disembarking, Airport Security was waiting in the gate-lounge, ready to perform some sort of Random Security Check' on unwitting passengers. But the word Random' has a different meaning in France , I noted, as they were herding anyone who was not white into a separate group.

As I walked away, I noted a group of unhappy Africans being lead into a room. Presumably to receive the customary French welcome of a friendly rubber gloved hand.

It occurred to me that any potential terrorist who had witnessed the French attempt at unbiased Random security checks', would only have to get a shave, pluck their eyebrow and acquire a beret to get past any scrutiny.

Obviously French Airport Security hadn't thought of this possibility, probably too busy shopping for rubber gloves and barbeque-tongs to aid them in their next mission'.

But, if the heavy handed tactics of the Random security checks' left me a little worried, all worries were soon waved away, just as I was waved away from French immigration.

At least it was supposed to be an immigration desk?

The immigration desk was not an elaborate affair as I had become used to in other major Airports, where there is usually some sort of large hall, with a row of beady-eyed immigration officers hunched over desks in tiny cubicles, somewhat reminiscent of the Goblins in Gringotts Bank in the Harry Potter movie.

The French equivalent of an immigration hall was an ordinary desk, with very little security, placed to the side of the corridor not far from the gate-lounge.

Most countries like to have some sort of control over who they let in, perhaps even asking to view passports?

Not the French, upon seeing my Australian passport (from some distance away), I was waved aside with an aristocratic air that conjured up the thought that this was standard procedure for French immigration upon being confronted by an Australian, and that Australians were not worth the time to even bother monitoring their entry into the country.

I was tempted to wait and see what immigration would do when they encountered the Random Security Check' victims, they might even ask to see their passports! But I figured I better get a move on and see what other strange sights the French had in store for me.

At baggage collection, the smokers all lit up.

Well the French smokers did. Curiously, at that time (late 2001), the French still hadn't caught on to the worldwide trend of banning smoking indoors. This was going on while recently arrived smokers looked on, inhaling the second-hand smoke deeply, and wishing they hadn't packed their own supply into their luggage.

And as had become the norm in this lunatic asylum, I was allowed to exit with my baggage, with no x-raying, no sniffer dogs, and no danger of any scrutiny of any kind.

Again, it must be the Australian thing, many generations of Australians before me had done their ambassadorial duty well, having cemented into French Psyche that Aussie tourists usually have only two missions in mind, getting to the nearest pub & joining the noisiest tour bus possible.

Once I encountered Paris ' famed underground train network, or the Metro' as it is known, I soon found out where the misguided French had put the bulk of their efforts in combating possible terrorist attacks.

Each train station had at least one, (and more for larger stations), four-man squad of armed soldiers on patrol. These were ticket inspectors with attitude!

Each had a machine gun in his hands, ready for action, rounds of ammunition hung off their jungle camouflage uniforms which ensured they stood out ,(maybe some city-camouflage was required here?, like a suit perhaps?, or sneakers and tracksuit?), and to top off the ensemble a few highly visible grenades were casually hung from their utility belts.

After a few days of regularly using the metro, I became quite used to the friendly armed ticket inspectors, I even began to wonder what would happen if I asked one of them to punch my ticket?

Late one evening, my colleague and I went to catch the train, and we found the station unattended, with a broken ticket machine!

The turnstiles at the station were the type you can't just hop over, you have to climb a two-metre high fence of steel bars.

So I tried the intercom near the stubborn ticket machine.

Wi answered a crackly voice

Ahh Parlai Vous Anglais? I asked

No answered crackly, and then babbled on in French for a minute

I was getting desperate

Le Ticket Machine, is broken I shouted in hope

Eh?

I tried again,

Le Ticket Machin, is Kaput! I desperately tried, throwing in the universal German word for broken to indicate that something wasn't right.

But instead of any indication of understanding or acknowledgement, I got what sounded like a barrage of French insults which probably loosely translated to Those damn Germans, they're invading us again!.

I can only assume it was something to this effect, because almost immediately after my crackly French friend ended our exchange, one of the handy armed ticket-inspector squads turned up. It then became apparent that the intercom we were using was for emergencies, we had almost become what authorities like to call An Incident.

Lucky for us, the soldiers didn't hate Germans or confused Australians and opened the gates for us to enter the station.

We gingerly walked through the gates, looking around in case another random security check' might take place.